


All For One (and One For All)

by proleptic_fancy



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-02
Updated: 2009-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proleptic_fancy/pseuds/proleptic_fancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scotty runs into an old rival, Chekov takes a stand, Kirk dials it up to eleven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All For One (and One For All)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/)**st_xi_kink**.

Montgomery Scott hated attending diplomatic functions almost as much as Captain Kirk hated hosting them. He'd developed quite the knack for begging them off in the past few months, even if he had to leave a spanner in the wiring once or twice to give himself an excuse. Not this time.

It had been decided, as it often was, by a bunch of stuffed shirts and politicians, that the latest gathering for Earth's connected and powerful would be held on the observation deck of Starfleet's prized flagship as it circled the planet below. Kirk was unhappy, to say the least, and he was taking it out on his officer corps, starting with Scotty.

"My goodness, Monty, is that really you?" someone was calling out.

Scotty considered fleeing from his strategic position between the nearest comm unit and the open bar, but knew it was already too late. He'd been spotted.

The man approaching was tall, blond and barrel-chested, his suit undoubtedly costing more credits than Scotty saved in a year. Mark DeSalle, bane of his existence for the better part of seven years before buggering off to sell out to the highest bidder. Hiding began to regain its appeal.

"Hello, Marcus," he said, friendly if more than a little wary.

Who knew? Maybe DeSalle really was just here to exchange pleasantries. Maybe they'd both had the chance to grow as people after going their separate ways. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

"Someone told me one of Archer's pet researchers had been busted back to lieutenant and transferred to the ass-end of the galaxy," DeSalle boomed, causing a few people to turn and stare. "Imagine my surprise to see it was an old friend!"

Maybe not. Scotty tried to blend into the decor, not easy in full dress. It didn't work.

DeSalle was upon him now, and Scotty found his hand enthusiastically engulfed by two the size of paving slabs.

"It must be what, ten years?" DeSalle asked. "How've you been? Still waving the flag for the Federation, I see."

"Oh, aye," Scotty replied, letting his guard down a bit. Eleven years was an awfully long time to hold a grudge. "Even got promoted. Chief Engineer on this fine lady, six months now."

"And congratulations are in order, certainly," DeSalle said. "Still, though, don't you miss it?"

Scotty tilted his head a little, lost. "What do you mean?"

"You know, the old work, the competition, the state secrets. Being on the forefront of new technology. Never would have pegged you as one to settle for mechanic's work."

Scotty frowned. "Suppose I hadn't thought of it that way," he said. Part of him wanted to defend his beloved _Enterprise_ , to explain that all the research in the world had nothing on feeling her hum beneath his clever fingers, to push her to her limits, coax out that last ounce of power in a crisis, but the words didn't come.

DeSalle laughed. "Typical bureaucratic bullshit. They run out of engine jockeys so they conscript the politically convenient, dress it up nice to hide the ugly truth. God I was so naive, thinking Starfleet would be on the cutting edge of research and discovery. Getting the hell out when I did was the smartest decision I ever made, I can tell you that much."

He smirked, leaned in a little closer. "I'll let you in on a little secret, Monty—everything worthwhile has gone private in this day and age. The real smart ones, they figure out they've been had. They're slaving away on _pay grades_ , restricted at every turn by lack of government spending, until they realize that out in the real world, there's billions for the taking as long as the markets demand smarter, stronger, faster, and they always do. Just look at DeSalle Industries. I can hire the most brilliant analytical minds in the Federation, put them to work on what the public wants, pay them enough to keep them happy and feed the rest back into the company. It works, Monty. Starfleet can't keep up."

"I'd imagine not," Scotty muttered.

DeSalle seemed to catch the lack of enthusiasm in his tone and met it with an artificially cheerful offering. "Don't take it like that. Your work is of vital importance to," he faltered a little, "to something, I'm sure of it. I just think it's a shame. Almost first in our class at the Academy and still lumped in with the rest of the grunting deckhands."

Scotty had no clever comeback for that one, not even to protest that the only man under him doing any grunting was a four foot alien who wouldn't hesitate to bite DeSalle's kneecaps off for the slight. The thought was fiercely satisfying.

"Enough about me, then," he said instead, eager to get as far away from the subject of his career failings as he possibly could. "What have you been up to in that high tower of yours? Doing well, obviously, if you're up here with all these other terribly important people."

"To be honest, things have never been better," DeSalle said.

 _Naturally_ , Scotty thought.

"I just bought out my two biggest competitors in the Rigel system. Hope to have a new branch out there by the end of next quarter, now that all the finest minds they have to offer will be looking for work. Economics are a fine and satisfying science indeed."

Scotty had never had the time to give the financial sector much consideration—so long as he had enough to eat and work and build, he was happy. Even so, after everything else, he couldn't stand by and let this oversized lout sully the good name of science, an honest man's trade, with the manipulative wizardry that had built his fortunes.

DeSalle must have read the look on his face, because he continued, the smug inflection tone dropped in favor of something much colder.

"It seems Starfleet's bubble has done it's job protecting you from the realities of twenty-third century living," he said. "I assure you, Monty, to the average man on any Federation world, my science is a hell of a lot more real than sub-quantum relativity permutations and trans-warp equilibrium."

DeSalle paused for a moment, the smile sliding back into place. "I think we've both had our fill of shop talk, don't you?" he asked, something in his expression implying Scotty should lie down and be grateful he was being spared the further humiliation. "Are you married? Kids? Or is the work still all that heart has room for?"

Another thing he hadn't got around to. He was beginning to suspect he was just feeling sorry for himself now, but DeSalle had always had a knack for that reaction when Scotty couldn't figure a way to best him in fair sport. Like now, as a matter of fact. With the turns their lives had taken, how could he?

"My wife should be around here somewhere," DeSalle continued, taking Scotty's silence as an answer of its own. "Let me wave her over. You'll love her!"

It wasn't difficult by any stretch to spot DeSalle from anywhere in the room, and after a quick scan of the crowd he seemed to have found her as well. The woman who hurried over and promptly attached herself to DeSalle's arm couldn't have been more then twenty, and while the way her red cocktail gown clung to her curves might not have been entirely appropriate for polite company, Scotty very much doubted anyone would be complaining.

Scotty didn't think the man in front of him could possibly be more smug, but when she turned to grant him an indulgent peck on the lips, DeSalle managed to once again prove him wrong.

"Mel, sweetheart, this is Monty, from my days as one of Starfleet's finest."

She smiled, coy and a little hesitant, as if she knew a secret.

"And this is my dear wife Melandry, the brightest star I've yet encountered."

"Oh, stop that," she said, giggling a little. "He's such an old romantic."

Scotty could feel his ears turning red. "'S a pleasure to meet you, lass," he managed.

Everything else DeSalle had said tonight was only a warm-up. This was the victory blow.

"Scotty!"

His head snapped up at the sound of his name. Please let it be a blown circuit, he thought, a clogged manifold, a warp core breach, anything but more old friends. He didn't think he could take it.

"There you are! I've been looking all over for you!"

It was Chekov. Chekov who had somehow managed to wind his way under Scotty's arm to smile oh-so-sweetly up at him, his crisp dress uniform all the more perfect next to Scotty's own perpetually rumpled countenance. Scotty blinked.

"Ensign?" he tried, puzzled.

Chekov gave him an exaggerated pout and squeezed his arm. "Please, darling, how many times am I telling you not to call me that away from the bridge?"

What.

Chekov let out a sigh and—dear lord almighty— _fluttered_ his eyelashes at DeSalle. "My fiance, always so serious about his duty." He brightened. "But that is why I love him, yes?"

Scotty just barely managed to avoid choking on his drink, an impressive feat considering he hadn't actually been drinking anything.

"Is not like you to be so quiet," Chekov teased. "Who are your friends?"

"Well, I, er, that is," Scotty began, but DeSalle cut him off before he could get his feet underneath him.

"Marcus DeSalle, of DeSalle Industries," he said, not so much smooth as downright oily.

"Pavel Chekov, off-duty," Chekov replied, shaking the hand DeSalle had offered without flinching when he let it linger longer than was strictly necessary. Scotty noted DeSalle's pained wince with savage satisfaction. Kid had a firm grip.

"And of course my lovely wife, Melandry."

"Charmed," he said, brushing his lips against her knuckles before releasing her hand. She too, seemed enchanted by his odd affectations and bright smile.

"Ch—Pavel," Scotty corrected with a little prompting from the younger man's elbow, "is the primary navigator on this fair vessel of ours. He's yet to steer us wrong."

"Oh, do not bore the man with my silly trifles. Please, Mr. DeSalle, tell me, what is it you do? You must be very important to be invited to a reception like this."

DeSalle grinned. Scotty tried not to groan. Whatever Chekov was playing at, getting DeSalle to talk about himself was neither difficult nor extremely helpful at the moment.

"Unlike my good friend Monty, here, I cast my fortunes in the private sector." He lowered his voice for dramatic effect, as if it would be enough to keep Scotty overhearing him. "I think we know who drew the better lot there, but I suppose Starfleet needs the Montys of the world to keep their bureaucracy turning while the real progress is made in companies like mine."

Chekov must have felt Scotty tense up at that—not difficult when the kid had him draped over himself like an overcoat— and turned his head to press a kiss to Scotty's cheek, cool against skin flushed with anger.

"I've got teams of engineers working for me now, on the cutting edge of new warp and transport technology," DeSalle continued, obviously chuffed with himself.

"I see," Chekov said, looking appropriately impressed. "Then I suppose you have cracked the problem of long-range beaming without relying on inferior sub-quantum technology."

DeSalle's face fell. "It's something we're working on."

"Ah, how disappointing," said Chekov. He looked back at Scotty. "I was sure a man of such intelligence and skill would have adapted your trans-warp equations for practical application by now. I suppose it is difficult to make profit when the information has been released for free to the scientific community."

Scotty was speechless, and for once, so was DeSalle.

"My apologies," Chekov said, not looking sorry at all. "My English is not so good sometimes. You are a very smart man, indeed, Mr. DeSalle, to attach your name and your patents to the work of those on, what was it, _pay grade_."

Chekov shifted a little closer, but his posture remained strong, almost defiant, even with that vacuous grin still plastered on his face. Scotty made a mental note to give the kid priority repairs until one of them retired. For the look on DeSalle's face, he'd earned it.

"Sorry, ensign, you said?" DeSalle directed it to Scotty, innocent as could be. "Sounds like the sort of thing that could get a man like you in trouble."

Chekov answered for him, laughing of all things. "I assure you, Mr. DeSalle, I am not being taken advantage of," he said. "Regulations are very lenient towards fraternization outside direct chain of command. Perhaps your time in Starfleet was too short to take advantage? Or maybe the change was," he paused, as if considering his next words carefully, "after your time."

"Now just you wait a minute—" DeSalle began, obviously annoyed, but he was interrupted by a suspiciously well-timed arrival.

"Marcus DeSalle! I'm so glad to see you could join us," the captain of all people exclaimed, hurrying over to shake DeSalle's hand. "And Mrs. DeSalle, I assume," he gave her a little half-bow, eyes somehow managing to twinkle. It was bordering on unnatural.

"I see you've met my chief engineer already," he said, clapping Scotty on the back hard enough to jostle Chekov, who shot him a decidedly cool glance but said nothing.

"We're acquainted," DeSalle mumbled.

"Lucky find, this one," Kirk said. "Just wasting away in some frozen outpost, no one to properly appreciate his talents."

The captain's hand moved suddenly lower, and this time Scotty really did choke on his drink, Chekov reaching over to pound him on the back.

Kirk continued, unfazed, "I'd be willing to say he's the most versatile engineer in the fleet."

No one should be able to make such an innocent—maybe even accurate—statement sound like, well like that. DeSalle was starting to go an interesting purple color. His wife looked intrigued, though it was hard to tell.

"I think that is enough, Captain," Chekov said, firmly removing Kirk's hand from Scotty's waist.

"Sorry, ensign," Kirk said, hands raised in diplomatic defeat. "Don't let me hear you've been trying to recruit my man, Marcus," the warning in his tone was only half-joking. "I'm not letting him get away twice."

"Captain!"

Either Scotty had been drinking too much or not near enough, because he was pretty sure the captain had just winked at him. Chekov was still pretending to sulk, at least, Scotty was pretty sure he was pretending.

"What would I do without you defending my honor?" he asked, giving Chekov's hand a little squeeze.

"The captain, if he had his way," Chekov muttered, but his expression softened considerably.

"Excuse me, Commander?"

Lieutenant Uhura this time.

Scotty shot DeSalle a quick 'what-can-you-do?' look before turning his head to face her, Chekov still leaning quite comfortably under his arm.

He'd never seen her in full dress before, and for just a second, lost in soft lines cut in sharp fabric and legs-to- _here_ , he quite forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

"I know you're busy," she said, snapping him out of it, "but if you get the chance, something's acting funny in my translation matrix circuits and you're the only one I trust to fix it right the first time."

This was starting to get ridiculous. The only person on the ship who knew those computers better than Lieutenant Uhura herself was Lieutenant Uhura's Vulcan boyfriend, who was probably something like one-quarter computer himself and knew how to relate.

"Not a problem. I'll have them right as rain by your shift tomorrow morning," he said, because what the hell? It was nice to feel appreciated.

"Thank you," she said, leaving him with one last, lingering look before disappearing back into the crowd.

"Starship's work's never done, I'm afraid," Scotty said to DeSalle, who, for whatever reason, was still here.

If the next arrival had been anyone but Mr. Spock, Scotty would have suspected they'd all planned this together, but the way Chekov froze up when he approached quickly shot that theory down. He glanced at the two of them together, his stoic expression unchanged, save for a single blink—probably nothing short of sheer bewilderment, for him—but let it pass without comment.

"Mr. Scott, I apologize for the interruption, but after the conclusion of this social function, I will require your assistance correcting a malfunction in our phaser banks."

Scotty would have been more than happy to take care of it straight away, and was about to say as much when first the thought of the captain shouting at him out of his own misplaced irritation with the admiralty, again, then, inexplicably, Chekov alone with DeSalle and wearing a very sour expression came unbidden into his head.

"Of course, sir," he said. Best to just do as he was told.

"Sorry to interrupt important Starfleet business, but I specialize in phase weaponry technology. In fact, one might go so far as to call my work on the subject revolutionary," DeSalle said, smirking. "Perhaps I could lend a hand."

"I see," Spock replied, one eyebrow slightly arched. "May I ask your name?"

"DeSalle, Marcus DeSalle. I run DeSalle Industries, branches in three systems."

Spock tilted his head, just a little. "I'm afraid I've never heard of you," he said, then turned on his heel and walked away.

Scotty could feel relief flood through Chekov's body against his, see his eyes flutter momentarily closed. It was obvious what he'd been thinking—same thought that had crossed Scotty's mind—that Spock would give the game away and make him look all the more pathetic for his rival's benefit, but somehow, he managed to deliver the final blow to DeSalle's bloated ego. Intentional or not, it was downright masterful.

"I," DeSalle began, again at a loss for words, "I suppose I've taken enough of your time, that is, I mean to say, I think the President's been trying to catch my eye, and it would hardly do to keep her waiting, wouldn't you say?" he practically stammered.

For her part, the President of the Federation looked happily engaged in close conversation with Lieutenant Uhura and a man Scotty vaguely recognized as the new ambassador to something-or-other, her antennae jabbing about in time with whatever they were discussing.

Scotty smiled. "Of course," he said. "Wouldn't dream of keeping you."

Wife still clinging to his sleeve, DeSalle made a hasty and strategic retreat.

As soon as they were out of sight, Chekov pulled away, ducking his head. Scotty stepped closer, natural curiosity no longer dampened by the need to maintain composure. He positioned himself so Chekov had no choice but to meet his eye. The smile he received in turn was shy, but genuine, no trace of the affected coyness he'd put on for DeSalle's benefit.

"C'mon, laddie," Scotty said, steering Chekov by the elbow towards the promise of free liquor. "My treat, before we're back on that synthetic swill the replicator passes off as cheap whisky."

Chekov wrinkled his nose in sympathy and accepted the offer, leaning into Scotty's touch as they navigated the thick crowd around the bar, then, drinks in hand, found a quieter corner to sit and unwind. Now that he'd plied the younger man with alcohol, Scotty wanted some answers.

"Now what was that all about?" he asked. "Spock I can understand, never let a good time get in his way, that one, but what about the rest of you?"

"I can't speak for Uhura or the captain, but I overheard the things he said," said Chekov, voice low and uncharacteristically hard. "About Starfleet, and the ship," he paused, looked down, "and you."

"Still, I feel I've imposed, no? Need a teenage ensign to defend my honor from that smarmy git. No offense," Scotty quickly added.

Chekov shook his head. "Is okay. If this ship has taught me anything, is that we can't always do it alone. I was," another pause, "glad to help."

"Aye, and I'm glad of it," Scotty replied. "I mean it. Thank you."

"I mean it too, Mr. Scott," Chekov began, but Scotty cut him off.

"You can call me Scotty when we're off duty," he chided. "Everyone else does."

"Except DeSalle."

"DeSalle's an arse. Anyway, you were saying?"

"What I was saying was, you look out for us. This ship, you've saved all of our lives so many times, but it's not just that. Is little things. When Sulu broke his arm, you rigged that reader in Sickbay and gave him voice access to the entire ship's library before he went crazy from boredom. You make house calls to malfunctioning climate control at all hours of the night. You make time to triple check someone else's pet theories during your lunch break—"

Chekov blushed a little at that one. There was really no need to, seeing as the theory had been sound enough to begin controlled testing, and the company had been a sight more pleasant than Olson's incomprehensible log reports.

"I guess what I want to say is, it is nice to look out for _you_. I'm sure the captain and the others feel the same."

Scotty blinked. He'd never stopped to think about it that way, that in a few short months he'd grown as fond of the crew as the _Enterprise_ herself.

"I don't know what to say," he said, because he felt like he had to say something.

Chekov smiled again, was undoubtedly about to give him a hint, or at least tell him that nothing needed to be said, when they were again interrupted by Commander Spock, standing stiff with his arms behind his back.

"It appears that perhaps the phaser bank situation was not as serious as I had originally thought," he said. "The men on duty have it under control."

"Good to know, Commander," Scotty said. One less thing to worry about was always nice. "Enjoying the party?"

Spock fixed them with a very odd look indeed. Almost, well it couldn't be satisfied, could it? "It has been adequate," he said. "Please excuse me."

He walked off in the direction of the bar, leaving Scotty and Chekov to stare at each other in dawning disbelief.

"You don't think that—" Scotty started, not even able to finish his thought it seemed so unlikely, nay, _illogical_.

"He couldn't, I mean," Chekov tried, similarly at a loss, "but I think he may have."

"Well who'd've thought?" said Scotty, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. One look back at Spock, though, handing off some shockingly pink concoction to Uhura, set them both off in a fit of mad giggles.

This ship was full of surprises.  



End file.
